


Turnip Day

by lucadris



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Cullen, Cullen Has Issues, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Satinalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 07:58:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15020147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucadris/pseuds/lucadris
Summary: For a child who does not eat their vegetables, the Maker prepares a table in hell only filled with their most hated food—that’s what Evelyn’s nanny had told her as she stood watch with her arms crossed, making sure Evelyn finished her turnips. (Translated from original Korean DA:I fanfic)





	Turnip Day

_For a child who does not eat their vegetables, the Maker prepares a table in hell only filled with their most hated food—_ that’s what Evelyn’s nanny had told her as she stood watch with her arms crossed, making sure Evelyn finished her turnips. Evelyn had lied that she’d eaten them all with her mouth still full of turnip, then rushed outside to spit out the half-chewed pieces in the garden. The shallow trick was immediately discovered by the nanny, who soon chased after her. It ended with her giving Evelyn a good, hard smack on the bottom with Mother present.

After few days, turnip sprouts began to show amidst the colorful blossoms.

“They’re the turnips you spat out, miss. They were to become your hair and flesh so you could grow up to be a fine bride—imagine just how resentful they must have been to bloom again!”

To be born, boiled, then reborn as turnips, of all things—what a miserable fate it was. Evelyn didn’t deign to reply; Mother and the nanny would only be too happy to collaborate and take turns in scolding her. Some children would shrewdly turn their parents against their nannies, but Evelyn wasn’t manipulative enough to come up with the idea. Instead, like any other young high-born women, she learned to patiently bear boiled turnips.

All the education she received through her family, such as they are, was useful enough. Evelyn was the fourth daughter of House Trevelyan of Ostwick. A bright future awaited her where she would either take suitable dowry into a marriage and act as her family’s ambassador in her new home, or join the Chantry to prove how pious her family was.

But when her older sister – who was to enter the Chantry – unexpectedly fell in love and married her lover, Evelyn’s parents eventually concluded that they lacked the finance to afford their youngest daughter a husband adequate enough to not disgrace the family name; Chantry it was for her. Considering Evelyn’s martial skills, it might have been better to join as a templar but she was too old. She began to prepare for the life of cloth, coming and going between the Chantry and the manor; her meals, made simple to encourage frugality, always included turnips.

It was the same with the Conclave. Her eldest brother, the successor to the household, was too busy; her second brother was in Starkhaven and her married sister was due to give birth soon. She was the only one her family could send to the Conclave taking place in The Temple of Sacred Ashes. Special dinner was prepared for the guests of honor on the eve of the conclave; the menu featured Orlesian cuisines (no doubt made with care, but badly seasoned) and Ferelden dishes (which were just as tasteless whether they had been seasoned well or not).

Amongst the latter were turnips simmered to jellies and smothered in butter. While those around her shared recent news, chatted about Divine Justinia’s recklessness and the sins of the mages, Evelyn slowly crushed her turnip with a spoon that had a phrase from the Chant of Light carved into its handle. It would have been considered a terribly rude behavior had anyone seen it. Evelyn smiled.

Everyone who shared the meal on that day ended up dead.

Evelyn arrived in Skyhold after much vicissitudes; her parents, although they must have been worried sick, still sent a very diplomatic letter. Her dear older brother – who will soon be the head of the family – would be watching her every step with great interest.

Turnips turned up often on Skyhold’s dinner table. Evelyn ate them without complaints.

 

***

 

Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford of the Inquisition was a handsome man from the town of Honnleath.

Some people wear their beauty as an armor or use it as their weapon of choice; some people simply don’t think of it as anything special—just another key in their chain. But Cullen seemed burdened by his fair features and deep, smooth baritone. Evelyn would watch whenever he helplessly fell to Leliana or Josephine’s teasing. It was greatly amusing.

Once, during a Diamondback gathering, Varric spoke up: “Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford is the prettiest person in the entire Inquisition.”

Dorian took an exaggerated gasp, “to suffer this insult on top of living in exile!”

“Dorian, you are, of course, an exception.”

Dorian grinned as he raised his mug of beer at Evelyn’s words.

“I can concede to that. Why can’t there be two prettiest people when there are two Chantries, after all? What do you think, Lady Inquisitor?”

“I’ll drink to that,” Evelyn laughed.

She knew that Cullen’s eyes have often been on her lately. Whenever she met them Cullen would quickly avert his gaze and excuse himself to calibrate the trebuchets.

This was an interesting development; since her teens Evelyn had endlessly and silently fought against her potential suitors. The suitor would politely introduce himself and skillfully scan Evelyn: _she seems to be wearing the same dress from the last charity ball with just the neckline swapped, does that mean House Trevelyan’s finances are suffering, I’ve heard that they’ve put up about two plots of land for sale and I hope that’s not a red flag, are her hips wide enough to survive a childbirth, could she have whitened her teeth with magic_ and so on. The appraisal would continue as they talked about a Mabari hound imported from Ferelden or a cousin recently graduated from the University of Orlais. As a fitting return, Evelyn would ram her knee into his chest and thrust him teeth-first into the marble floor……or at least she’d imagine doing so.

But Cullen’s gaze did not scan or judge or calculate behind her back; his brown eyes simply _looked_. In their first meeting his eyes were straight and disciplined. But those honest eyes somehow began to creep over the line—although rather than saying that he’d did it on purpose, it simply happened like ink staining over the border and Cullen could not help it. His gaze would be captivated by her eyes and her cheekbones, resting on her wrists peeking under the pushed-up sleeves before hastily backing off.

It was the day after Evelyn had returned from her trip to Emprise du Lion. Before the meeting started, Leliana spoke up, “we are glad you came back. Everyone was worried.”

“Especially our Commander here,” added Josephine.

Cullen glanced at Evelyn before turning his eyes back to the map on the War Table.

“The Inquisition’s future rests on your shoulders, Inquisitor,” he said.

“Is that so? Thank you.”

Cullen lifted his head, “And more importantly—” he closed his mouth and crossed his arms. 

“I have reports on the recruitment in Ferelden’s western areas.”

_Ah, Cullen._

Leliana began the conversation on the way to the chapel, “Cullen admires you.”

“Does he?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t notice, Lady Inquisitor. You are a Trevelyan in her thirties.”

“Of course I did.”

Maybe a little too much.

 

***

 

Satinalia was approaching. They had enough funds left for a celebration. The celebrations went on for a week in Ostwick; they agreed to keep it to three days in Skyhold. Evelyn emptied her own purse and Josephine, Leliana, Cassandra and Cullen contributed as well. The walls were covered with festive tapestries and quilts while dried flowers and cedar sprigs were hung above the fireplaces. Maryden invited a band (the leader complained they broke the lute’s strings while climbing the mountain). After a light quarrel, horror and much laughter between Varric, the bartender, Josephine and the cook, they came up with a plan for a feast consisting of produces they farmed in Skyhold.

During Satinalia in Ostwick, balls and banquets would last for several days. Evelyn changed clothes at least four or five times a day: for a “breakfast” starting at 2pm, for hunting, for tea parties, for dinners, for a dance, for playing card games all night long. Her parents persisted in sending her a chest of new clothes to Skyhold, _just in case you need it,_ but she didn’t even open it. She only kept the jewelry box on her drawers.

On the first morning of the celebration Evelyn opened the box. In it were the golden bracelets, left to her by the late aunt who’d been close to her since childhood. The aunt had married her sweetheart from Tantervale and died of childbirth many years ago after having twins. The set consisted of five bracelets; Andraste’s face and a sentence from the Chant of Light were carved into each. The groom had sent one each month, five months before the wedding. The fifth bracelet’s phrase was from the Canticle of Trials, Verse 10: _What You have created, no one can tear asunder._

Evelyn had never worn them; first because the memory of her aunt was still too painful, then because her life had taken a turn for a more reserved lifestyle. But sometimes she’d take one whenever she ventured out on one of her trips.

Today, although, should be alright; her aunt had loved Satinalia.

The bracelets felt loose; perhaps she’s lost a bit of weight living in the Inquisition. She could pull them up to her elbows before they fell down with a jangle. The bracelets clanged and chimed with every step. They sounded like an echo from the bygone days of perfume, boutonniere, pearl aigrette and velvet—the world she had left far behind.

The feast was going to start in the evening, so there was still some time to look through the paperwork. Evelyn leaned over the documents and the bracelets jangled against her wrists. When she pushed them up, the metal was bitingly cool against her skin; it felt good. The bracelets came down with a clear ring. She pushed them up again.

Evelyn turned to find Cullen staring at her and her arms. Their eyes met. He shook himself and took a step closer.

“Inquisitor.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Perhaps in Cullen’s imagination, he’d stood behind her, pulling up the slipping bracelets back himself, his fingertips ghosting over her goosebumped wrists and arms; he’d glance at the fine hair on the back of her neck shining like dandelion fluffs contrary to her jet-black hair, smell the lavender on her hair from the oil she dropped in the water basin this morning, put his forehead against her temple before touching his lips against her cheek and murmuring a greeting—

Or all of these could be simply her wishing _what-ifs_.

It wasn’t anything special. Evelyn signed the papers Cullen brought.

“Maryden and the band will be playing for tonight’s banquet.”

“My apologies, but there is still some unfinished work. The supplies we’d lost when Comte de Beranson completely withdrew his support for the Inquisition—“

“Yes, I remember your reports from yesterday. But you will be coming tonight, won’t you, Cullen?”

His face finally lit up with a faint smile, “yes.”

“Socialising and celebrating together are also an important part of the job. Please do come.”

 

****

 

Evelyn went down on one knee in front of the statue of Andraste in the chapel. There was nothing she could offer to Cullen. It would be surely dangerous and unwise for the leader of an unsanctioned paramilitary organization and its martial commander to engage in a romantic relationship.

If Evelyn were to do anything foolish, House Trevelyan – one of the most pro-Chantry in the Free Marches – will be quick to renounce her. Evelyn was on good terms with her family but no unmarried daughter was more important than the safety of the entire household; the fourth daughter’s ex-templar lover from a remote Ferelden town even less so.

“But Maker, I’ve accepted everything you’ve put me through so far without a question.”

Evelyn glared at the melting crimson candle. Pain shot through her left hand like a current; gripping the hand tightly, she added:

“You can’t blame me this time. Not for this.”

Evelyn returned to her chambers where she rooted through the drawers and came up with some perfume; she sprayed the scent of daffodil behind her ears, her chest and on her wrists. She also took out a small box engraved with silver. There was still some rouge left inside; it’d be better than pinching her cheeks.

At the feast Evelyn sat between Leliana and Josephine; Cullen was placed next to the ambassador. Rolling the Tevinter wine on her tongue, Evelyn glanced at his face. He nodded along or laughed at Varric’s words. Whenever their eyes met Cullen would smile but he didn’t try to start a conversation with her. 

When the band began to play a loud “Antivan” song, a very drunk Josephine abruptly stood up from her seat. 

“That’s not it! The notes are wrong. I was once a bard myself, I should know. That’s simply wrong!”

As Josephine took the lute and began to tune it, the banquet hall was filled with whistles and claps. Evelyn laughed out loud. Maybe it was the sounds of her bracelets ringing that made Cullen look her way; Evelyn raised her glass in salute and Cullen answered the same, but he wasn’t laughing.

 

****

 

“Cullen was at the Circle Tower when a mage uprising took place. He was the only templar who was taken hostage and survived the ordeal.”

Leliana sat on the sofa and stretched her long legs. The noise from a Diamondback competition – courtesy of Varric – could be heard through the wooden doors.

“Afterwards he was sent to Kirkwall, under the assumption that his now more……extreme tendencies would make him a suitable lieutenant for Meredith Stannard, Kirkwall’s Knight-Commander. But he ended up shouldering the aftermaths left by Meredith’s madness alone, at least within the templar ranks.”

“How unfortunate of him.”

“Let’s just say the reality he was in didn’t support his sense of duty.”

Evelyn chewed on her lower lip.

“It’s just a rumour, but I’ve heard he had someone he deeply cared for,” Leliana lowered her voice, “that Cullen was in love with Solona Amell.”

“The Hero of Ferelden?”

“Yes. Although nothing seems to have happened between them; Solona Amell completed her Harrowing then became a Warden not long after.”

Solona Amell had disappeared recently. It was a well-known fact that she and the Warden Alistair Theirin, the last surviving heir to the Ferelden throne, were lovers. It had been several years since the Blight ended. Cullen didn’t seem like a man who’d still be weeping from a broken heart.

“A classic tale, really: a knight wounded from his loss of beloved.”

“It wasn’t so simple in Cullen’s case, but I didn’t look into it any further to respect his privacy. Cullen’s lost much, but he’s still ready to give everything for our cause. He’s a worthy man,” Leliana smiled.

“Just like you, Inquisitor.”

Evelyn returned to her room near the sunrise. She pulled out the pins from her hair and took off the boots; the bracelets were put back on the drawers. She changed and lay on the bed. Through her sleep-hazed eyes she could see the bracelets, twinkling with the color of shields and armors in the darkness.

 

***

 

Sleeping in was customary for a day after banquet, yet Evelyn opened her eyes early; probably because she was too used to outdoors. It didn’t feel like sleep would come easily anyway, and her head ached. She needed some cold air. She went outside.

There she found Cullen, who rarely showed himself outside his office, training grounds and the war table. He was staring at the green leaves still poking through the snow.

“What caught your interest, Commander?” 

“Turnips. They haven’t pulled them all out,” Cullen smiled.

A reddish turnip could be seen near his feet. Cullen leaned down to dust off the snow on its leaves.

“I didn’t see one in Kirkwall, but there are winter turnips in Ferelden, much bigger than normal ones. They’re white and green on top. Usually they’re harvested in the New Year’s, but when it’s frosty or snowy some of them would freeze and burst. We didn’t want to let them go to waste, so we’d wash them in the creek and peel them with our nails. They’d taste hot and sweet,” Cullen’s smile turned embarrassed.

“You would probably have never eaten turnips that way, Lady Inquisitor. Sometimes in Honnleath, there came a season when you had nothing else to eat.”

Evelyn had never had to worry about going without meals when she was growing up. Eating frozen, bursted turnips because there was nothing else to eat, the mages’ rebellion Cullen went through in the tower, the Blight, the tragedy of Kirkwall Chantry—they were all some faraway hearsay to her. She’d never have met this blond man either, had the sky not been torn—how strange the turn of events were.

“Hm,” Evelyn could not stop herself, “there _was_ that one time I nearly starved.”

“When?”

“That day, when Corypheus attacked Haven.”

Cullen turned towards her, frowning slightly.

“I was lost in the snow.”

“Ah, yes……”

“I started thinking, ‘how long will I survive? Would I freeze to death or starve first?’”

Cullen laughed, “as someone born and bred in Honnleath, I can assure you, Inquisitor: you would have frozen to death first.”

Evelyn didn’t laugh. It was a journey that seemed to go on and on like parallel lines. Where the despair-crossed lines met, at the vanishing point—that was where she found Cullen.

“Cullen, you found me right then.”

“It was most fortunate that you were alive.”

Evelyn gathered her courage at his answer, “Cullen, I was fortunate that you found me.”

Evelyn studied Cullen’s face and his eyes shook for a moment. He raised his head as if to say something, but then Cullen’s face returned to its usual, trained expression of a soldier.

“The Inquisition wouldn’t exist without you, Inquisitor. You’ll catch cold if you stay out here for too long.”

 

**

 

On the next day’s post-drinking game of Diamondback, Evelyn lost miserably. Varric, of course, came first and Leliana came second (Josephine volunteered to keep the scores, smiling and claiming that she did not want to risk an enmity on Satinalia). Blackwall came third.

A tired Cullen had appeared in front of the pub only to be pulled in by Harding. He seemed uncomfortable.

“I just wanted some remedy for the headache.”

“Cullen, why don’t you join in the game?” Evelyn asked gently. 

“I’m afraid I’m rather terrible at Diamondback.”

“So am I.”

Varric was shuffling the cards again. Evelyn sighed.

“The loss I just suffered is more painful than I thought—I think I’ll also need some balm for the headache.”

Leliana was glancing at Evelyn instead of checking her card. Evelyn stood up. The healer would usually sit at the second floor, reading a book with a drink by her side; but she was half-asleep at the moment.

“It feels bad to wake her.”

“It’s Satinalia. Shall we take a walk, Commander?”

They left the pub and passed the yard. The ground was littered with colored confetti and empty bottles. Evelyn exchanged a silent greeting with a smiling Mother Giselle who seemed more exuberant than usual.

“I’d like to see your office. Sera tells me there’s a hole in your bedroom ceiling—surely the Commander of the Inquisition could have chosen a less dilapidated quarter.”

“I’m afraid I don’t use the bed much.”

“Oh my.”

“I usually sleep in the barracks or at my desk.”

“Beds are the pinnacle of human invention, Commander. Please respect yours.”

Cullen laughed.

“Then what about Inquisitor Trevelyan’s bed—“ Cullen cleared his throat.

“You of all people should be sleeping well, Inquisitor. I don’t leave Skyhold all that much, after all—“

“There’s no need to worry, Commander. My bed gets all the respect it deserves whenever I stay in Skyhold.”

Cullen coyly rubbed the back of his neck.

“My office isn’t much, but please, come in.”

While Cullen’s office wasn’t spacious there was a sense of haunting emptiness. It wasn’t as bad as she’d imagined; the floor didn’t creak nor the walls falling apart. Both sides of the room were surrounded by bookcases crammed to the limit, and a ladder led to the bedroom. His desk was covered in documents. Cullen smiled, clearly embarrassed.

“I wasn’t expecting a visit from the Inquisitor. I would have cleaned if I’d known.”

“You could at least replace that ladder with stairs. Or do you sleep so little you’re all right with it?”

“I feel less tired when I remember I’ll have to climb the ladder.”

Cullen leaned down to open a drawer and pulled out a wine bottle. Unexpected, Evelyn burst out laughing.

“This is the only drink I have to offer you, I’m afraid.”

“Drinking on duty—how could I say no?”

“A gift from Dorian; it’s not Tevinter but the closest he could find, he said. I drink a glass or two when I can’t sleep.”

Ironically, there were no glasses in the office but only two dented mugs; Cullen apologized as he poured the drinks. They toasted to health but Cullen barely drank after the first sip.

“The view is lovely from up here. Who knew I’d be drinking a cup of wine on the second day of Satinalia, in the office of Ser Cullen Stanton Rutherford?”

“Ostwick is famous for its Satinalia festivities, isn’t it?”

“The celebration would last for at least a week.”

“You would have been dancing all night by now then, Lady Trevelyan.”

Evelyn rolled her eyes.

“I don’t think so. If I hadn’t come to the Inquisition, I would have joined the Chantry, wearing a ridiculous hat and writing a sermon. My family traditionally promises one child to the Chantry.”

She took another sip. Evelyn could hold her liquor, but even though she’d drank little, she could feel a bit of reckless courage creeping up as the drink flowed down her throat.

“Cullen, if only my sister had married a little earlier, I would have become a templar.”

Cullen was silent. After silence, he answered with a stern face, “I’m glad you didn’t become one.”

“You’re glad? Really?”

“Yes. A noble sacrifice is something you would’ve done, but as someone who’d been down that path, I’m glad you didn’t have to battle the lyrium addiction. Your life is worth much more than that.”

“Then you’re glad that I’m the Inquisitor?” Evelyn swirled the mug, staring at the small whirlpool inside the cup.

“Yes, you are the right person,” Cullen answered without hesitation.

“Do you think so? I wonder why. I was just a soon-to-be sister from the Free Marches.”

“All things happen as the Maker has planned. The Maker has meant for you to survive the Conclave, to stand in front of me right now as the Inquisitor.”

“What about the Anchor on my hand? Should I suppose this is also the Maker’s will?”

Putting down the mug, Evelyn pulled off her left glove and left it on the desk. The light carved into her hand filled the room.

“The Inquisition needs someone steadfast like you.”

“Cullen, a high-born Free Marches woman would have gotten married already and had a child or two at my age. But when my sister – who was meant for the Chantry originally – met _the one_ , my family couldn’t afford my wedding dowry, nor find a suitable match. If I’d become a sister, my life would have been simpler, much less dramatic. Who knows, maybe I would have been waving the candlestick in a covert and holy power games.” 

Evelyn glared at Cullen’s brown eyes, “I didn’t choose to have this Anchor. I hate it.”

“But the path you choose doesn’t always lead to the future you want.”

Cullen leaned his back next to the windowpane, shoulder to shoulder with the mountain ranges shining white. The window shook faintly against the northern winds.

“It was the same for me. I’d wanted to become a templar ever since I was a child, but in the end I chose to leave them.”

“Do you think that was the Maker’s will as well?”

Cullen put down his mug on the bookshelf.

“That’s what I’ve been taught to think all my life.”

“Cullen, there were hundreds more people who were more talented than me, who were as committed as you were. But they were all killed in the explosion—only I survived.”

The man didn’t answer. He stared at her, biting his thin lips.

“I wish I didn’t have this Anchor. Every night my own left hand burns up to kill me. I would’ve been better off eating boiled turnips and praying at the earliest dawn.”

“I’m glad you’re the—“

“I want you to be honest with me.”

Cullen straightened his back.

“I am glad you’re the Inquisitor. That’s all I can say. I can’t say anything else—I musn’t.”

“Cullen. It’s fine.”

She was sure it was despair that swept across his face. Cullen’s lips trembled.

“There was someone else before you. It’s a well-known rumor amongst the Free Marches templars; I’m sure you’ve heard of it already.”

Evelyn held her breath. She’d never seen Cullen this emotional.

“You are right, I’d loved Solona Amell. I’d never spoken with her much but I’d certainly loved her. Templars are forbidden to even talk to the mages under their guard, and I knew I wasn’t supposed to love someone whom I had to protect and watch. But I loved her even so. I spent more time pondering about her than actually be with her.”

Cullen buried his face in both hands as he quietly confessed, “then I was taken hostage by the blood mages…and I confronted a Desire Demon.”

He stayed still, silent. A sob, a scream, or a laugh—it was the silence trying to bury down something that was threatening to overflow from deep within.

“Cullen, no-one escapes a demon’s clutch unscathed.”

“It tore my soul right down to its foundations. I should have protected her—I should have……”

There was a tattered copy of Chant of Light on his desk—Transfigurations, first chapter, verse one: _They shall be named Maleficar, accursed ones._

“I’m sorry. I should not have looked at you that way.”

His eyes sinned, wanted; shame and penitence became his armors to protect himself from desire. His love was his Maleficar. The Inquisition was his brier whip of redemption. 

“Cullen, do you think you’re the only one who’d looked at me in such way? What about me?”

Cullen said nothing.

“I am not a mage in a tower you need to protect; neither was the Hero of Ferelden. Solona Amell was strong enough to vanquish the Archdemon. Should you ever turn your sword against me, I will definitely strike back. You don’t need to worry that your feelings for me might harm me.”

There was silence. Evelyn glanced at the bookcase behind Cullen. Pages and pages were filled with inks and stories. It was a prison full of word-crammed animals forced to keep their mouths shut—and their master, Cullen, had lived with the tale of repentance swallowed down for more than a decade.

He’d tried to be flawlessly pure. He’d tried to be seamlessly just. He’d tried to atone perfectly. He failed.

Cullen took a breath.

“Inquisitor, I’ve lived all my life as a templar. But even I know how silly it is to speak of your lost love to the woman you……have feelings for.”

“You know there is no such thing as a correct answer, Cullen.”

Cullen hung his head, his face buried in his hands.

“We’ll talk more later,” whispered Evelyn, but Cullen did not answer. She left the room and closed the door behind her.

As she changed her clothes in her chamber, she stared at her face in the mirror. There were still bracelets lying on the drawers: the five bracelets sent by the groom to the bride-to-be. _The feel of calloused hands on the arms, a breath tickling the ears, cold metals digging sinfully into skin. A Desire Demon._

Evelyn put the bracelets back into her jewelry box and locked the lid.

 

***

 

Her eyes opened early in the morning but Evelyn refused to rise; instead, she glared at the ceiling. She took her time washing her face and putting on clothes. It was the third day of celebration but there was a meeting at the War Table. Leliana appeared in chain armor once again, Josephine put a new candle on her document board, and Cullen finished the daily reports just as quickly as usual. Evelyn looked outside. People were picking up rubbish scattered on the snow; the busy season of festivities were coming to an end.

Four of them exited the room together but Cullen left through another corridor after a quick farewell. Evelyn walked alongside Josephine. Josephine covered her yawn and excused herself with a shy smile. Evelyn couldn’t but help but wonder as she watched Josephine’s smile. The scion of House Montilyet who used to be in charge of Orlesian-Antivan embassy—and what was she exactly doing, in this middle of nowhere? What was Evelyn herself doing in here? What exactly had Commander Cullen Stanton Rutherford spoken to her last night? Evelyn was as sober as she could be, her head clear, but it felt as if the ground beneath her feet weren’t as solid.

Josephine and Leliana remained in the ambassador’s office, leaving Evelyn to walk out alone. At the end of the hall was a chair standing under the iridescent light pouring through the stained glass (Evelyn, with a touch of cynicism, called it The Throne). It was probably the first piece of furniture people placed when they were rebuilding Skyhold, but Evelyn never really used it except when she was making a judgment. Evelyn sat on the chair and stroked the majestic armrest. _Even the_ cushion _for my backside is more dignified than I am._

The massive doors opened and closed. A blond man was walking across the corridor. Evelyn nearly stood up in surprise, sat down again awkwardly; Cullen’s eyes bore into her, determined.

She waited with one hand on the armrest.

“Inquisitor, there is something I must tell you,” Cullen stood in front of her, pressing his fist against his brows.

“I wished to apologize for the last night. Please forget whatever I’d said then.”

Evelyn considered telling Cullen “Well, no.” She considered telling him, _It’s alright. From high societies to Skyhold, most of the people I’d met were more corrupt, unreasonable and base than you, and they never reflected on their action; there are people living with their hearts filled with something worse than your innocent look and the demon who pulled your mind apart. Just as the Bride of the Maker had burned herself for the foolish mankind who’d turned their back on the creator, as the Herald of Andraste, I have enough arrogance to burn with the sin of someone as noble as you._

Evelyn opened her mouth: “All right, I will.”

Cullen nodded. A sudden impulse seized her; words started flooding out.

“But trust me on this. Cullen, you’re a good man. It’s all fine. Look, _I’m_ fine. And,”

Cullen seemed taken aback, “There’s nothing wrong with _you_ , In—“

Evelyn cut into his words as she looked into his eyes, _“'What You have created, no one can tear asunder.'”_

Cullen was silent before he found his words, “I have been reading that phrase a lot lately but I’m not sure if it’s entirely true. The sky is torn, and demons are flooding through it.”

Evelyn took off her glove. The light from the Anchor shined across Cullen’s face. She studied the orderly shadows thrown over his brow-bones, nose, cheekbones and chin.

Evelyn opened her mouth, “but Cullen. We’re fixing the sky. We’re fixing the tear across the heavens.”

It took some time for Cullen’s face to lose its hardness, but she waited. Eventually, Cullen laughed tiredly. A half-given up, half-relieved look floated on his pale features.

“When you put it like that, it makes the Inquisition’s job sound rather simple.”

The sudden wave of relief nearly took the strength out of her legs. She let the words flow out of her without thinking.

“Yes, this Anchor exists so I can sew up the torn sky. There’s a reason I’d taken so many embroidery lessons back at home.”

“You’re right.”

“And it’s the Maker’s will that I eat turnips without complaints even though I actually despise them.”

“You’re right again.”

Evelyn couldn’t help but laugh. As she put her glove back, Cullen returned her glance with a smile.

“Come now, I’m making absurd jokes and you’re not even trying. Stop agreeing.”

“I agree with you telling me to stop agreeing.”

Cullen reached out to her and she took his hand to stand up. She wanted to link her arms with him but for now, she decided to go with just walking side by side.

“Alright, Commander. Since today is the last day of Satinalia we should do something special. Let’s go to where the turnips are planted.”

“Turnips?”

“Sadly, there are no Ferelden winter turnips here.”

Young maidens are usually forgiven for their shenanigans. Or so she’d read in a popular romance novel during her girlhood spent in Free Marches.

Luckily, there was no-one in the gardens yet. She pulled out a purple winter turnip and washed it. Cullen began to laugh. When she was peeling its skin Cullen commented she shouldn’t hold her knife like that from that angle. Pretending not to hear it, she took a bite. She chewed it once, twice, spat it out because it was too hot and bitter and terrible. It went down the wrong hole and she couldn’t stop coughing. Instead of rebuking her, Cullen brought her some water from the well; it was so cold it made her teeth ache. Evelyn sneezed and Cullen kept laughing.

“That marks it: today is the Turnip Day,” she said as she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I’m not certain if it should be celebrated, but as Lady Inquisitor wills it,” said Cullen gently, picking off the turnip leaf stuck on Evelyn’s arm. His hand shook faintly but his touch was tender.

**Author's Note:**

> Translated from the original Korean DA:I fanfic, original available at: https://getoutofkirkwall.postype.com/post/489318


End file.
